The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and something underneath it I couldn't name. Something metallic. I lay in the bed with the thin blanket pulled up to my waist. The IV drip in my arm fed me fluids I didn't ask for. The monitor beside me beeped steadily. Proof I was still alive, I supposed.
The nurse had just checked my vitals when Philip walked in.
He carried flowers. White roses. Expensive ones. The kind that came from the boutique florist on Madison Avenue, not the bodega downstairs. He'd put on his charcoal suit. The one he wore to important meetings. His tie was perfectly knotted.
He stopped at the foot of my bed. His face arranged itself into an expression I'd seen a thousand times—concern mixed with careful control. Like he was about to deliver bad news to a valued client.
"Leila." My name came out soft. Pained. He set the roses on the windowsill and moved closer. "I don't even know where to start."
I said nothing. I watched him.
He pulled the chair up beside my bed and sat down slowly. His hands folded in his lap. "What happened yesterday—" He stopped. Swallowed. "It was unforgivable. I know that. I lost control. I've never—" Another pause. "I've never done anything like that before. You know that."
I knew he was waiting for me to speak. To absolve him or accuse him. I did neither.
"This whole situation," he continued. "It's been—it's been impossible for both of us. The stress. The pressure. Azalea showing up like that, it wasn't planned. My mother getting involved. Everything happened so fast and I—" He leaned forward. His eyes locked on mine. Held there. "I made a terrible mistake. The worst mistake of my life. And now we've both lost something we can never get back."
*We.* He said *we.*
He reached for my hand. I let him take it. His palm was warm and dry. "I need you to understand something," he said. His voice dropped lower. Intimate. "Involving the authorities—pressing charges—it won't bring our baby back. It'll just destroy what's left of our family. My mother, the business, everything we've built together. Is that really what you want?"
I felt the weight of his hand on mine. The careful pressure of his fingers. I looked at his face. At the concern etched into the lines around his mouth. The moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes.
It was a good performance.
"Three years ago," I said. My voice came out steady. Clear. "When I lost the first baby. Do you remember what you told me?"
His expression flickered. Just for a second. "Leila—"
"You said it was an accident. That Azalea didn't mean to push me. That I'd tripped on the stairs and she'd tried to catch me." I kept my eyes on his face. "You said the police investigated and found nothing. That I should let it go. Move forward."
His hand tightened on mine. "This isn't—"
"You forged the victim impact statement," I said. "The one that kept her from being charged. You wrote it yourself and signed my name. I found the draft in your email. The one you forgot to delete from your trash folder. Two years ago."
The color drained from his face.
"I also found the wire transfers," I continued. "Seventeen thousand dollars to Azalea's account over the last eighteen months. Pulled from our joint savings. The receipts from Dr. Chen's cosmetic surgery practice. The apartment lease you co-signed in Tribeca. The credit card I didn't know existed."
He let go of my hand. Pulled back. "You—"
"I've been saving everything," I said. "Recordings. Bank statements. Text messages you thought you deleted. I have two years of evidence, Philip. Documented. Organized. Backed up in three separate locations."
He stood up. The chair scraped against the linoleum. "Leila, you need to think about what you're doing. If you go to the police—"
"I already called my attorney," I said. "This morning. Before you got here."
His mouth opened. Closed. He looked at me like he'd never seen me before.
I reached for the call button clipped to my bed rail. "You need to leave now."
"Leila—"
I pressed the button. The nurse appeared in the doorway thirty seconds later. "Is everything okay?"
"My husband was just leaving," I said. I kept my eyes on Philip's face. "He won't be coming back."
The nurse looked between us. Philip stood frozen beside my bed. His hands hung at his sides. The flowers he'd brought sat on the windowsill, white and perfect and already starting to wilt in the dry hospital air.
"Sir," the nurse said. Her voice was polite but firm. "Visiting hours are over."
Philip stared at me for another long moment. Then he turned and walked out.
I watched him go. The door swung shut behind him.
My phone buzzed on the bedside table. A text from a number I didn't recognize. Then another. Then three more in rapid succession.
I picked up the phone. Read them.
*You're making a huge mistake.*
*Think about what this will do to my mother.*
*We can handle this privately. Like adults.*
*Don't do something you'll regret.*
I set the phone face-down on the table. Outside my window, the sky was gray. It looked like rain.
